A Place Among the Tribe
After revealing the less than positive aspects of my recent past, it seems appropriate to acknowledge that there were many people in my life who gave me a sense of place and belonging and who made me feel loved.
Growing up in a small town within walking distance of extended family was probably my biggest salvation. There were relatives who were always happy to see me and made me feel welcome and wanted. I enjoyed their wonderful stories. They showed me old photos, some on tintype. They shared a bit of gossip now and then, making me feel part of this magic inner circle.
They taught me how to play canasta, how to make pie crusts, bread, homemade noodles, soup... We sat under grape arbors and topped and tailed green beans for canning. We worked side by side in steaming kitchens putting away food for the winter. We walked through their gardens and flower beds while they told me what each plant was. We threshed chick peas and pinto beans, like people did for centuries. I pulled weeds and planted strawberries, helped make garden rows and put seeds carefully into the soil. I moved irrigation pipe with my cousins and enjoyed slip and slide in the mud. Summer will always be my favorite time of year. It was full and fertile, infinitely productive and deliciously fun.
One uncle showed me the best place to find arrowheads on his farm as I rode alongside him on an open combine. Another great uncle showed me a German helmet brought home from the war but said little else. A great uncle showed me how he rolled his own cigarettes. . . regular tobacco. All these special people made me feel loved. They were full of quirks and fallibilities but that didn't matter because they seemed willing to accept mine. They provided a stable sense of place and belonging.
It took some distance and time for me to fully appreciate, the richness of my upbringing. When I was in the convent, I was late for lunch and not taking time to change out of tennis shoes into my bunion-creating pumps, I ran to the lunch room so I wouldn't be chided for being late. Instead, I was loudly and publicly scolded for being uncouth. My "Grand Inquisitor" told me that she couldn't expect much from someone of my simple background. I was embarrassed and fought back tears. Now, I'd tell her where to put her lofty notions of civility. Kindness is the most important attribute of the truly civil being.
When I earned a 4.0 in my first three quarters of college, another sister, told me that they didn't think I was smart enough to teach high school. Fortunately, I knew was a lie even then. Nothing helped my cause. I was to be an elementary teacher. At that time, I wanted to also major in theology. I was told that as a woman, that was a non-essential area of study. As a amateur religious, that made little sense to a nascent-liberated woman of the 70s. Much later, I understood it was about the money that I could earn more readily for the convent if I were an elementary school teacher. The convent wasn't my tribe at all. I was at home with the simple, dirt people, the uncouth.
All this dredging of the past is meant to be more than cathartic for me. I want it to clearly show how important the smallest, simplest acts of connection and kindness can be. Often, I struggle to be kind. I'm naturally sarcastic and a little bit mean. I'm not proud. I am honest. Some times, I don't catch myself in time and I can do damage with an off-hand remark or thoughtless comment. My past has given me a strong insight into the impact of another's cruel words or lack of awareness.
It can be easy to focus on the negative, on the ways in which life has changed us for the worse but it's only part of the story. My immediate family may not do family well but my extended family more than filled the breech. Most of them are gone now, but I have rich and powerful memories of how simple people survive. They are my roots and they ground me and keep me strong.
Growing up in a small town within walking distance of extended family was probably my biggest salvation. There were relatives who were always happy to see me and made me feel welcome and wanted. I enjoyed their wonderful stories. They showed me old photos, some on tintype. They shared a bit of gossip now and then, making me feel part of this magic inner circle.
They taught me how to play canasta, how to make pie crusts, bread, homemade noodles, soup... We sat under grape arbors and topped and tailed green beans for canning. We worked side by side in steaming kitchens putting away food for the winter. We walked through their gardens and flower beds while they told me what each plant was. We threshed chick peas and pinto beans, like people did for centuries. I pulled weeds and planted strawberries, helped make garden rows and put seeds carefully into the soil. I moved irrigation pipe with my cousins and enjoyed slip and slide in the mud. Summer will always be my favorite time of year. It was full and fertile, infinitely productive and deliciously fun.
One uncle showed me the best place to find arrowheads on his farm as I rode alongside him on an open combine. Another great uncle showed me a German helmet brought home from the war but said little else. A great uncle showed me how he rolled his own cigarettes. . . regular tobacco. All these special people made me feel loved. They were full of quirks and fallibilities but that didn't matter because they seemed willing to accept mine. They provided a stable sense of place and belonging.
It took some distance and time for me to fully appreciate, the richness of my upbringing. When I was in the convent, I was late for lunch and not taking time to change out of tennis shoes into my bunion-creating pumps, I ran to the lunch room so I wouldn't be chided for being late. Instead, I was loudly and publicly scolded for being uncouth. My "Grand Inquisitor" told me that she couldn't expect much from someone of my simple background. I was embarrassed and fought back tears. Now, I'd tell her where to put her lofty notions of civility. Kindness is the most important attribute of the truly civil being.
When I earned a 4.0 in my first three quarters of college, another sister, told me that they didn't think I was smart enough to teach high school. Fortunately, I knew was a lie even then. Nothing helped my cause. I was to be an elementary teacher. At that time, I wanted to also major in theology. I was told that as a woman, that was a non-essential area of study. As a amateur religious, that made little sense to a nascent-liberated woman of the 70s. Much later, I understood it was about the money that I could earn more readily for the convent if I were an elementary school teacher. The convent wasn't my tribe at all. I was at home with the simple, dirt people, the uncouth.
All this dredging of the past is meant to be more than cathartic for me. I want it to clearly show how important the smallest, simplest acts of connection and kindness can be. Often, I struggle to be kind. I'm naturally sarcastic and a little bit mean. I'm not proud. I am honest. Some times, I don't catch myself in time and I can do damage with an off-hand remark or thoughtless comment. My past has given me a strong insight into the impact of another's cruel words or lack of awareness.
It can be easy to focus on the negative, on the ways in which life has changed us for the worse but it's only part of the story. My immediate family may not do family well but my extended family more than filled the breech. Most of them are gone now, but I have rich and powerful memories of how simple people survive. They are my roots and they ground me and keep me strong.
Comments
Post a Comment